


Blank

by justbecauseyoubelievesomething



Series: Writer's Month 2020 Prompts [25]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Artist Clarke Griffin, Depression, Established Relationship, F/M, I don't exactly know how to explain Clarke's state of mind in this, I have no reference for when this takes place honestly, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, canonverse, maybe? - Freeform, which is why i put it into a fic instead of just trying to write it out I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:21:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26179414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justbecauseyoubelievesomething/pseuds/justbecauseyoubelievesomething
Summary: A Bellarke drabble for Writer's Month 2020. Prompt 25: drop.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Series: Writer's Month 2020 Prompts [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1863823
Kudos: 19
Collections: Writer's Month 2020





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**Author's Note:**

> I know this is canonverse, but other than that I don't have any particular point in time in mind for this. Originally, I had the idea of Oceanverse Bellarke, but that universe exists specifically to take them away from the worst parts of their trauma and this is about Clarke dealing with more of that, so it just didn't fit. Anyways, y'all can fill in the blanks (ha, see what I did there).

The beige canvas feels too big, too empty. It stretches in front of her, an enormous void begging to be filled. An unknown to be uncovered.

Clarke takes a deep breath.

The acrid smell of paint fills her nostrils, familiar with the weight of abandoned dreams, unfamiliar in its closeness. The wooden palette pinches at her fingertips, pulls subtly at her wrist. In her left hand, the thin handle of the brush rolls softly against the creases of her palm. It should feel solid, reassuring.

Instead it fills her with dread.

She takes another deep breath.

The thin threads of the brush swirl through a glob of green. Almost too thick for Clarke’s tentative poking. But when she lifts the brush, the green stays.

Another breath.

She steadies the brush over the canvas. Poised to make a firm stroke to start with. A sort of structure to follow. But she hesitates again. The brush trembles ever so slightly and she watches with a distant fascination as the green paint gathers into one thick bead at the very tip of the brush and finally, finally drops.

“Clarke.”

Bellamy’s voice snaps her back to herself and she becomes very aware of how fast her breaths are rasping. She clumsily tries to cover the splatter of green paint now decorating her knee.

“Hi.”

He steps up behind her, so that she can feel the gentle concern radiating from him over her shoulder.

“Are you okay?”

“Of course.”

He hums something that might be agreement or disapproval, but he doesn’t move and Clarke tries to relax.

“Really, Bellamy. I’m fine.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” She turns a little to look over her shoulder at him. “Your thoughts are too loud.”

He frowns slightly. “So are yours.”

She presses her lips together tightly and turns back to the canvas. “I’m just thinking about what to paint.”

He leans forward a little more, enough so that Clarke can feel the little hairs along her neck stand up.

“You haven’t decided yet?”

She blinks at the blank expanse, summoning imaginations of the past to fill it with fantastical colors and shapes. Yet it remains empty, a sightless, staring window into a gaping void.

She hates it.

“It’s a work in progress,” she says, admirably keeping her voice steady.

He makes that little sound in his throat again and leans forward another inch so that his chin is resting on her shoulder. She focuses on his weight, just enough to anchor herself, and dips her brush again.

The green paint is thicker than it should be now on the end of her brush and she watches the oily goop cling to each individual strand, pulling them away from each other.

Her hand is shaking again and the long bristles vibrate in agreement with her panic.

“Clarke.” His voice, warm against the shell of her ear.

“It’s so…free,” she whispers, the words feeling rough at the back of her tongue.  _ Too _ free.

How to explain the sickly dread of so much freedom? A choice that, for once, meant nothing? A bend in the road that is no longer a road, but an ocean, wild and uncomfortably, irrevocably free? Like trying to walk up a staircase with no stairs. They’ve dissolved beneath her feet, each logical forward step gone, swallowed in the mists of her so-called freedom. She’s falling into the screaming grey space of her canvas, a tiny drop of errant color in a desert of nothing.

“What if…” She pauses and gives herself a moment to swallow the lump in her throat. “I used to say… it was about living, not surviving. But what if… What if I forgot how?”

Bellamy slides his arms around her, keeping his chin against her shoulder and she leans back so that she can feel the heat of his chest and the dependable rhythm of his heart. His forearm brushes across her palette and she finds her gaze drawn to the smear of bright blue across his dark skin. Something. Something that was not nothing.

“Hey,” he whispers and she hears the same terror buried deep under the layers of comfort and concern. A familiar fear of never being able to come home again. 

“Hey,” he repeats, “we’ll learn.”

He tightens his arms and she grabs his forearm gratefully as she leans into him. Her paintbrush glides along his arm, mingling the dark green with the blue into a stormy streak and it’s definitely not nothing. They’re not nothing.


End file.
